Living On Bread Alone - Gypsy Raga In Monsoon Time

Watched a slick, oily storm cloud spread a stain ‘cross the sky In a silence so quiet, you could hear Jesus cry. Drank a bottle of wishes from a bottomless glass. Sometimes the most you earn on Monday is a kick in the ass. Poked around in an ashtray full of earthly delights. Lit the butt of a Lucky. Read a cockroach his rights. Reached my fist out the window; grabbed the night by its throat And left it bleeding in the gutter with a suicide note. This calls for Prozac and whisky. Let’s welcome the rain, Not add to the flood with our tears. We’ll pick a drowned man’s pocket, Place a flower in his hand And mumble our confession in his ears, Yes, in his ears, we’ll mumble our confession in his ears. When I worked as a desk clerk at the Chester Hotel, Used to piss in the corner. No one noticed the smell. Got my kicks outta saying, “There’s no room at the inn!” I’d shoot ‘em all the arctic finger with a s**t-eating grin. Had a job as a waiter back when business was slow. Got promoted to baker, now I’m rolling in dough. Slice it fresh from the oven. Spread some jam on that bread. I may not dine on steak and chops, but I’ve got crumbs in my bed. This calls for Prozac and whisky. Let’s butter this toas. The crust ain’t as burnt as it seems. We’ll climb some chain-link mischief, Vault the transom, pry the lid, And taste forbidden pastry in our dreams, Yes, in our dreams, we’ll taste forbidden pastry in our dreams.